Drabbles from Germany
by pompier
Summary: These are drabbles in answer to the livejournalcommunity tammyunderscoredrabbles. Crits are more than welcome. I'm a journalist from Germany and developed my love to Tammy's books 20 years ago. These are my first attempts at fanfiction. Crit welcome!
1. Prompt 55: Pet names

OT-Notice: These are drabbles in answer to the livejournal-community tammy-underscore-drabbles. Crits are more than welcome. 

**I think it's clear, but still: All living and not-living being, countries and Gods invented by Tamora Pierce belong to her. **

_Apologies if I break some of the rules of fanfiction. This is my very first attempt with a fanfic. To say the truth, this is my first story since I did a quick "damsel-in-distress-saved-by-gorgeous-prince"-drabble – about 20 years ago, I think. So. I hope it somehow fits that prompt. Crits are more than welcome. Even if they're just pointing out mistakes in grammar, wording or the likes. English isn't my native language, and I'm eager to learn. Here we go._

Word-count: 300

**Prompt 55 - pet names**

_ Magic. It must be a mage. Perhaps a new one? With a yet to be identified kind of magic? One that reads your history as if it were an open book? They had all kinds of it. Lately, there's been so many new ones. Like that girl. "Animals just like me"-my ass! Her and the scarecrow-man scaring the students off, when they had so little time, so much to do. _

** Slap!** His huge, callused palm makes contact with his forehead. A smacking sound, as if you open a bottle of Marenite wine. The red one, with that fine scent of cinnamon ... _ Concentrate! Where did you make the mistake? When, where did that man learn who you've been_

Sweat starts pouring down his back, between the shoulder-blades, soaks the sensible woollen tunic, leaves patches on his leather belt.

"Uh, Sir, are you alright? That hurts, you know?" Looking down, he realises that he's crushing the merchant's hand as if it were one of those mint leaves he was about to purchase. From a man who calls his customers all sort of pet names. Slowly, breathing deeply, he forces a smile on his face, then apologies with an unintelligent mumble about the sudden wave of heat in Corus, and him feeling a bit sick. The sweat gives his lie credibility. He buys the mint leaves, then hurries away, nearly running.

A fortnight later, at the noon bell, the merchant's stand is being searched, and counterfeited money is found. The amount is large enough to send the owner to the mines, up North, near the Scanran border.

_ My magic. Useful to be friend with the Provost's Guard, eh? Never again. Nobody shall ever call me that again. Mage or Merchant. Neither of them. I'm no longer Brownie, the slave. I'm Sarge Ogunsanwo. _


	2. Prompt 61: Element of Surprise

Prompt 61 - Specific Prompt 2

Title: The Element of Surprise

Words: 669

Starring: Onua Chamtong, OC

b i Either the Graveyard Hag had a say in it, or the Trickster God had wanted to relax a bit from all the hassle in the Copper Isles. Either way, it must have been a God's joke. "Having fun with mortals" – nearly as fulfilling as playing chess with Usuaoe. /b /i 

Onua Chamtong was with a Rider Company, accompanying them on a visit to Maren. They had heard about an illness concerning horses in Maren and further east, and the Wild Mage Daine was busy nursing her second child, Rikash. Daine's daughter Sarralyn had currently picked "horsie" as her shape, and bringing her into a danger-zone for all four-legged species wouldn't have helped, either. So it was up to the horse-hearted woman to travel to Maren with the Riders.

She stumbled over the man in the Wandering Bard in Berat. They had come here recommended by the Lioness. Hands full with kegs of beer for her friends, she was unable to avoid bumping into him when he entered the room, not watching where he walked. Onua was about to apologise nevertheless, but then she blinked and jerked her head aside, as if trying to hide her face. The man grumbled and was about to walk around her, when he glanced at her face. "Onua?" His voice sounded as if he'd seen a ghost, he froze in the middle of the busy way, not caring about the people yelling at him to move his behind. The horse-mistress of the Tortallan Riders put the kegs on the table next to her, where the unexpected "gift" was happily greeted and immediately devoured by some drunkards.

Hands formed to fists, set on her hips, she frowned at the man, cocking her head. "Mattin", she stated matter-of-factly, with a steady voice, managing successfully to hide the shiver seeing him sent down her spine. Hadn't he been bigger, the last time they met? "I-i-i thought you were ...", he uttered, leaving the last part of the sentence hanging in the air. "Dead?", she finished for him. "Well – no." Why was he so pale, when his skin used to be of a bronze-colour? Those drops of sweat on his forehead, rolling down the deep lines next to his nose – was he ill?

Thoughtfully, Onua watched what used to be her husband, in a life before this one. Why had she loved him, again? His good looks, the confident stride, the way of talking as if he knew everything. He wasn't horse-hearted, had never understood her affection to "those damn slime-spittin' beasts". He wasn't looking very confident right now, either.

Unconsciously, Onua stood in a fighting-stance. She'd never been a lily-like damsel in distress, but the years with the Riders had made her used to fights, given her muscles and that very self-confident look. Still, she didn't understand why Mattin was so pale, shifting back, nearly stumbling over a rat-sized dog on the floor until his back met the wall. Onua had followed him, watched by her Riders. They'd intervene if she needed help – right now, it looked as if she was talking to a perfect stranger.

"Now, did you find another woman to beat to death?", Onua asked kinda casually, ignoring that throbbing pain in all those old scars. She didn't really know what to expect of Mattin as a reaction. Get grumpy, maybe. Try to beat her again, be it with words or fists. What she wasn't prepared for was him getting even paler, rolling his eyes up in his head and just collapsing, slipping down the wall, right into a puddle left by that tiny dog.

b i "Uarghs, I hate it when those mortals are so afraid they just wet their pants. She didn't even have weapons!", a disappointed male voice said. "The element of surprise is a stronger weapon than many think. You should know – didn't the girl in the Copper Isles teach you that?", an old woman's voice answered, accompanied by cackling laughter. "You owe me a dance, Trickster!", the Graveyard Hag stated gleefully. /b /i 


	3. Prompt 62: An intruder

Prompt 62

Someone is an intruder, or perhaps just expecting one that never comes. Have fun!

Were it not for that darn wooden goblet, things could have happened differently.

One morning, Alanna, known throughout the Palace as "that red-head page", woke up gasping. Blood spilled over her thighs. It came from the place nobody else but her was allowed to see. That one place that proved that she wasn't Alan, one of the male Trebond-twins, but in fact Alanna. A girl.

i "Goddess, help me – what shall I do?" /i she muttered a prayer while pressing hastily grabbed bandages to stop the liquid's flow. Her fingers fluttered, her mind raced. She quickly dressed herself, having made a decision in the meantime, and sneaked out of the door – but not without taking that small wooden goblet with her. It fit under her belt, on her back, without its sharp base hindering her riding. She had loaned it from the man she was going to ask, no, beg for help. That cold, calculating part of her mind remembered her to give it back now, because she wouldn't be allowed to go back into the City before Midwinter if Duke Gareth the Elder caught her sneaking into town. She would never be able to explain him satisfyingly why she had to search for a female healer. Never.

Some weeks before, George Cooper had shown her that special entrance to his room, when they talked about that warning he got about an assassin having been paid ten gold nobles to kill the 17 year old lad who "held too much power for his age", as some people feared. The shutters were barely closed. Leaving her horse Moonlight in the courtyard, Alanna climbed the ladder upstairs, then wriggled herself through the entrance.

i "Didn't yer Ma teach you te enter throu' the door?" /i , the King of the Rogue asked, pressing a cold dagger against her neck. Alanna didn't really move, but inhaled hastily, about to answer. The wooden goblet pressed sharply into George's bare skin, right next to his groin. Without a second thought he slashed the knife through her throat.


	4. Prompt 63: Behind the Scenes

Prompt 63 – Behind the scenes

The cat was worse than a first-year page. Not only did it visit all the cat-ladies in the Palace (howling while doing so, too), but it also sneaked into the kitchen every now and then. He stole the head-cook's cleanest hat on the day of the great banquet, disappeared with it and caused the apprentices to have to hunt him through the long corridors. They didn't dare touching the cat with their bare hands. Every other cat, yes, but not this black-furred exemplar with violet eyes. So they used brooms to bat the curtains, searching for a bump hinting that there'd be a four-legged thief hiding behind.

"There! I seen'it!", exclaimed the youngest apprentice, a blond eight year-old boy – and hit the bump behind the curtain with all the might of his scrawny frame.

"Ouch!", the bump answered – and a big boy of 14 years emerged. His dark curls formed a huge contrast against the red-and-golden uniform he wore.

The head-cook arrived in time to break up the tussle between the boys. "Back to the kitchen!", he ordered his apprentices in a stern voice, indicating hours spent scrubbing pots. Then he turned to the older boy. "And you, Squire Raoul, you'll have the joy of offering refreshments to the young ladies of the Court. Don't try to change duties with Page Alan or any of the others again, or I will have to talk to his Highness. -They- know their positions – and none of them hides behind the scenes!"


	5. Prompt 64: Guilty pleasures

Prompt 64 – Guilty pleasures 

Training the Rider's recruits was a difficult job. It included a lot of responsibility, the right measure of being understanding and commanding. "There are some upsides, too", thought Sarge Ogunsanwo while bellowing at the three recruits whose packs were too heavy. They had to lighten their burden before leaving for the summer-training. "A rider travels light, my lambs! You don't need this. Or that", he said in his lightest voice – which still could be overheard by the waiting travel-party through the closed door. While talking, he took the crude candy-bars out of the recruits' packs. "Indeed, there are upsides: Cinnamon-apples and chocolate with nuts – way better than last time's dried dates!", he thought. And Sarge stuffed the sugary sweets into his big pockets, smiled briefly, then ushered the recruits outside, to continue with their training.


	6. Prompt 65: So long, and thanks for

Prompt 65 – So long, and thanks for the ...

He was all alone. Completely lonely. The people he'd known, his friends, family, they all had disappeared in front of his eyes. They grew old, then died, became skeletons, then crumpled to ashes, dust, wiped away by the harsh wind that blew into his face. He wanted to run to them, stop them, cry. But he couldn't reach them, even though he ran, and he wasn't allowed to talk.

Fear trickled over his spine. "Will I die alone?", he thought.

He didn't have time to elaborate on that thought, as the scenery changed: Sitting in a library, he knew that he had to find a clue in all those rolls of parchment. Frantically hurrying from one stack of paper to the next, he blew the inch-deep dust away, ignoring the urge to sneeze, and then tried to read the words written on the parchment. He couldn't. At first he thought it was one of the old languages, High Gallan or the one of the Old Ones. Then, the words started to gradually disappear. Rubbing his eyes, he looked around, and the surrounding started blurring, too. "I'm blind!", he thought, yelling in his own mind.

Grabbing around, he searched for an exit, and found the big, iron door. It opened, and he emerged. Sweat-soaked, his full hair clinging to his temples, the veins in his muscled neck pulsing with his fast heart-beat, his lips bleeding from biting on them.

"So long, and thanks for the experience", thought the soon-to-be-knighted Myles of Olau, then he turned away from the Chamber of the Ordeal – back to his friends, family and life.


End file.
